Alex Gray - The Riverman

Barr looked keenly at Duncan once more. ‘And you’re sure young Michael hasn’t said a word?’

‘I trust him,’ he said simply. But, even as he spoke, Duncan wondered just how often he’d put his trust in his fellow partners over the years. And now one of them had betrayed that trust in the biggest possible way.

Alec Barr stared into the distance, blind to the view across the river that his office commanded, his fingertips pressed sharply against the flesh of his lips. All thoughts of his client waiting downstairs were now forgotten. Michael Turner was uppermost in his mind. What to do about him? The young accountant’s previous assessment had brought him to Barr’s attention as having partnership potential. Who had made that observation? Barr suddenly recalled. It had been Duncan himself. He’d thought it typical of Forbes that he’d been ready with praise for a youngster who might easily present competition to his own son, Philip, in years to come. Barr’s face grew dark. There would be years to come in this firm, he told himself. There was too bloody much to lose.

But first he had to deal with Michael Turner.

That young man was not going to go down in the annals of Forbes Macgregor history as the whistle blower who brought about the demise of the company. Not if he could help it.

The bartender smiled to himself as he turned away. A little harmless flirtation was the spice of this job, he reckoned, and the female customers always seemed to respond to his Aussie charm. It was the accent, Eileen had told him when he’d boasted a little. Not his good looks and what remained of his surfer’s tan, then? He’d laughed when she’d given him a playful shove. The women over here weren’t in the habit of paying compliments to their men, he’d found. They were more likely to insult than flatter you. But this woman had smiled at him in a knowing sort of way and he’d responded by turning on his charms full blast. She was a bit older than the usual clientele who patronized the City Cafe. Her clothes looked expensive: black suit, white shirt, the uniform of the office worker, except hers were fine wool and silk. He glanced over his shoulder to see if she was still looking at him but her eyes were on her glass of wine, thoughtful and brooding. She was a good-looking, classy woman, her dark hair expertly cut, make-up discreet except for those vampish red lips that had curved into a smile.

‘Michael! Over here.’

The bartender watched as a young man strode towards his new customer. Now this was someone he did recognize. This fellow was a regular after office hours: someone he’d seen among the younger set that frequented the smart wine bar, with the view across to Pacific Quay. Was he her son, perhaps? He waited a moment, watching their body language: the handshake, the deferential way he moved as he sat down beside her when she patted the seat of the booth. Not her son, then. A toy boy? No. Not from the nervous expression on his face. A colleague, perhaps. The bartender caught the woman’s eye and was by her side in three easy strides.

‘What’ll you have, Michael? A G-and-T?’

‘Oh,’ the young man seemed suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Em. Just a Coke, thanks.’ The bartender smiled wryly, caught the woman’s eye for an instant then sauntered off to fetch the order. Couldn’t handle his lunchtime drinks then? Right enough, he was only a one-pint-and-then-I’m-off customer, now that he remembered. Never came in at lunchtimes.

The barman laid the glass of Coke carefully beside the woman’s white wine (an Undurraga Sauvignon Blanc that he’d specially recommended), his smile bland enough to encompass them both.

It was a matter of a few minutes, a tiny episode in an otherwise busy day that he’d probably forget before the afternoon was out. He’d never have guessed that two months from now he would be quizzed repeatedly for information concerning the meeting between this pair. Or that it would have such profound repercussions.

The ball ricocheted off the wall with a whack and came back satisfyingly at an angle within the man’s reach. He tipped the edge of the squash racquet and hammered the ball home for the final point.

‘My game, I think.’ Graham West smiled, trying not to show the exhilaration he felt at his victory. Three weeks in a row now and Frank hadn’t come near to beating him.

Their eyes met briefly and West tapped his racquet lightly on the other man’s sweating back. ‘Same time next week?’

‘Oh, why not? Though I must be a glutton for punishment,’ his partner protested.

Under the shower’s warmth West succumbed to the needle-like jets revitalizing his body. After a few minutes his skin took on a pleasant numbness and he let his head and shoulders slump beneath the hissing spray. Life wasn’t at all bad. Maybe this time next year he’d be in a London gym and living in one of the newer properties by the Thames. And maybe have a boat moored near by? Still, he’d want to keep both his penthouse flat on the south side of the river Clyde and his boat out at Inverkip Marina. A foothold in both cities, he mused. If things got too heavy down south he could always come back here for a break.

There was something about Glasgow that never really let you go, Jennifer had told him, when he’d asked why the pretty redhead had never left the city of her birth. He’d shrugged in compliance with her point of view, but was glad that it didn’t apply to him. Glasgow might have a hold on him but it was business, not personal, he thought, grinning as his mind dredged up the Godfather ’s famous cliché. He could be at home anywhere he liked and having a place either side of the border might be fun.

Graham West turned off the shower and towelled his dark hair into untidy spikes then stepped out, surveying himself in the mirror. The reflection grinned back at him: a lean, tanned body, the epitome of vigorous manhood. He slung the towel across his shoulders and headed towards the sauna. No need to dash off to work just yet; a nice interlude to dry off and relax, then he’d think about it. That was the beauty of being a single man in the city, he often told himself. There was no significant other demanding that he keep to a routine, throwing him out of bed at the sound of an alarm and expecting his return with the advent of rush hour. No, that was for the likes of Malcolm and old Duncan. They could keep their staid little lives.

As he settled back on to the hot boards, West closed his eyes and thought about the future. Already his hat had been thrown into the ring; it couldn’t be long until they decided on the next UK deputy head of Forbes Macgregor. Peter Hinshelswood was retiring in June and rumour had it the names were being put forward before Easter. Alec had as good as promised him that the post would be his. He couldn’t wait to move to London and the money he’d made already would easily cover a more expensive flat. He grinned. Ach, the job was his for the asking! No other office had results like theirs and no other aspiring partner had the charisma that had taken Graham West on his journey to the top. It would mean new challenges but, even as he contemplated what these might involve, West felt a tingle of excitement. There was nothing like the whiff of a complicated case to arouse his interest. It was as good as sex, he’d told himself more than once. The thrill of the chase, the danger of losing a quarry and the feeling of triumph when it all came right, just as he’d planned: how like the conquest of a woman!

Graham West gave a smile. There was one particular woman he had in mind right now who would benefit from a long, lingering farewell.

Catherine Devoy did not meet West’s glance when he came out of Alec’s room, her eyes apparently on a document she seemed to be examining closely. He moved swiftly along the corridor, his shirt sleeves brushing against the wall’s cool surface, before she raised her head from whatever had taken her interest and saw him vanish into his own office.